Page 97 of Wrecked

An ambulance whirled through the streets, straight toward the park.

Adam didn’t stay to answer my questions. He ran because he already knew the answer.

chapter TWENTY-TWO

“I see that you got your car fixed.”

Dad just scared the daylights out of me.

I wasn’t expecting him to be on the recliner in the sitting room, his leg crossed over the other, with a book in his hand, a floor lamp casting a warm white glow over him. Yet the sight of him is relaxing. The feeling of being home is grounding.

I stare at the McConaughey keychain in my hand. “Yeah. Got it back tonight.”

He pats the sofa next to him, offering me a seat.

Placing my bag on a table by the door, I slide off my shoes and walk across the living room and into the small room on the side where Dad likes to read. It’s a small space for his recliner, a love seat, and a tall bookshelf boasting his beloved classics.

I take a seat on the chenille sofa and point to his book. “What are you reading?”

“Dubliners,” he answers with closed eyes and a grin. Even he knows it’s crazy that he’s read James Joyce as many times as he has. Especially Dubliners, which is a series of short stories. “Some say it’s Joyce’s simplest work. I find the more I read, the more I learn.”

“Which story?”

He rotates the book in his hand. “‘Araby.’”

“Ah, the story of the boy who whacks off to his best friend’s sister.”

Dad chuckles. “You’re being a realist. It’s about the consequences of idealization. The boy builds the girl up in his head and creates fantasies about her, so when she finally speaks to him, he can’t even put two sentences together. But what is real is not always what we build up in our minds.”

I tug at a loose thread peeking through the couch cushion. “He thinks she’s this amazing person when, in reality, she’s just like everyone else.”

“You can’t create love or conflict where it doesn’t reside.”

I pull too hard on the thread, and a small hole appears. “Crap! I ruined your couch.”

“I’ll sew it in the morning,” he says. He leans back into his chair, his leg recrossing, as he looks back at me.

He is sitting in silence, watching.

“What?”

“You want to tell me what’s eating at you?” He has the nature of someone who will wait all day for me to speak. Sitting in his chair, he lovingly gazes at me and just waits for his little girl to finally own up to what’s been going on the last few weeks.

I sigh. “What do you already know?”

He laughs lightly. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“I got into an accident,” I say, looking up at him. He doesn’t seem surprised, so I continue, “My friend—this girl, Victoria, was driving. She was high, so as soon as the cops came, she left, leaving it to look like I was the one behind the wheel. I wasn’t though, I swear.”

Dad looks on at me. “I know. Adam told me.”

I clench my fists together. He had no business telling my dad about my accident. I can feel my face tense as I think about how he went behind my back and—

“A father deserves to know about the safety of his daughter.”

“He went behind my back.”

His finger taps his knee. “What happened next?”